Brothers Together, Eternally
by calla lilly rose
Summary: Darry had one last thing he had to do for Ponyboy. The very last thing he'd do for him. One Shot.


A/N SE Hinton own The Outsiders. I own nothing, except the tissue boxes I needed while writing this.

**Brothers Together, Eternally**

XXX

Darry headed slowly across the parking lot, toward the small gray building he'd been in a few times already during his lifetime. Inside, he showed his ID to the receptionist and was taken back to a room much different from the warm reception area. This was a sterile room, one not usually seen by visitors, with clipboards posted on nails hammered into the cinder block walls and bleached, uncomfortable odors emanating from every surface.

In the center of the room was a stainless steel table, waiting for the next occupant. Darry stood there, waiting too. Next to him was the funeral director who had given his personal approval for this. A few moments later, a gurney was wheeled in by another young man, a stranger to Darry. This stranger along with the funeral director carefully lifted the body to the table, then the young man left. Once he was gone, the funeral director looked at Darry again.

"Are you sure, Darrel? We have people to do this."

Darry stood steadfast, determined to be the one.

"I'm sure. It woudn't be right … not to him, to have someone else touching him. He'd want it to be me. Can we be alone?"

The funeral director nodded, patted Darrel on the shoulder before he uncovered the body, then left Darrel to the task.

Darry wiped his eyes, expecting - yet not expecting - to see his youngest brother laying there, so still and unmoving.

Darry looked at Ponyboy, all grown up yet still so young. 54 years young. Young to Darry anyway. In Darry's mind he still saw the smile on his brothers face, the laughing green eyes, and the reddened ears from all the embarrassing things he and the gang had done to Ponyboy over the years.

Darry turned on the water, waiting for it to be just right, even though Ponyboy wouldn't care now if it was ice cold or scalding hot. Once the temperature was right, Darry got the soap and started washing his brother. Their father had been the first to bathe him, Darry only thought it fitting that he should be the last. He absolutely hated the idea of anyone else touching his brother.

He started at the hands, their strong grip now gone. Every detail of his brother's skin was examined, lest anything be forgotten. Looking closely, Darry could make out the small round scar that was still there on his finger, that idiotic game of chicken from decades ago still belying the stupidity of youth.

Then his arms, the tattoo of an eagle soaring in the sky, gotten during one of his drunken days of his only year in the Army. Around the eagle were several sets of initials. Friends. A brother. All gone. All together now, all but one.

On his stomach was the healed scar of combat – the reason he only spent a year in the service and not longer. Some VC sniper had targeted Ponyboy in their sights after some idiotic green grunt had saluted him on the battlefield, not realizing that was the kiss of death for most officers, and blasted him in one shot. He lay there in the overgrown fields of Vietnam, bleeding more Curtis blood onto grass that had already tasted the same vintage once before, yet managed to do what Sodapop could not.... he survived and came back home. Alive.

Darry lightly brushed over the scar with his thumb, faded - yet eternally present, then moved on, trying in vain to mentally push the past away again. He washed his brothers abdomen. Pony's build was always good – his six-pack abs were still present, making Darry laugh in spite of everything else. Darry's had faded considerably over the years while Ponyboy's had only gotten more impressive. After getting shot though, Ponyboy wouldn't wear anything that would reveal that scar.

Further south, on his knee, was another scar. A long thin white line stained the flesh where surgeons had tried in vain to fix the blown patella. He'd had a promising career in track until that day during his Junior year in college, when an an errant hurdle jump felled him, crashing his entire body weight on that one joint. He'd revealed to Darry that it had hurt, was limping even, but Darry'd told him to just walk it off, stretch it out. Ponyboy did, but it didn't get better. A week went by with no improvement. The team doc had looked at it and seemed worried, the specialist who saw him next had the same expression. The surgeon only shook his head after the operation. He'd walk, he'd run, but he'd never compete again.

And that chapter in his life was over.

With that scholarship gone, ROTC picked up the tab. Then Pony had to pay for the tab. A week after graduation, he was off to do battle, a battle Darry thought he'd had seen the last of when Soda came home in a box a few years before. A box Soda's platoon commander had said not to open. Darry didn't, instead he had the coroner do it. The coroner came out and nodded, and Sodapop was officially gone.

Darry had him sent to Arlington instead of West Lawn. There, he'd be cared for, for time eternal in a place of honor. He'd had no children... at least, none that neither Darry nor Ponyboy could confirm. Sandy was always the question mark on that subject. But that was over thirty years ago and no one had seen or heard from her after she'd left.

Once Ponyboy came back, he dove into writing again. It had been a hobby of his when he was a teenager, a hobby that exploded into a career as soon as he made it into an outlet for his over-active imagination. He'd been good at it. Damn good.

Looking back on it, Darry now knew it was how Ponyboy dealt with loss. Expressing his remorse in words, in stories, in prose. The many volumes he'd penned were full of adventure, sadness, elation and grief. He'd let the characters feel the pain or joy he would have if he'd allowed himself to feel ... _anything_. And reading those stories, Darry could feel the torment Ponyboy'd steadfastly refused to feel, deeply buried from everything he'd been through throughout his life. Those ghosts had never left him.

The ghosts of their parents, of Johnny, of Dallas. Even later when Steve died in a fiery crash while test driving some souped up car in a drag race, or a decade later when alcoholism and cirrhosis painfully ended Two-Bit's antics forever. Darry hoped he was at peace now. He hoped they were all at peace.

The last thing he needed to wash was Ponyboy's hair. His ginger locks had thinned some, and gray had long ago began to interweave itself into the palate. But it was _his_ color, what nature had intended him to have and not some insane bleached blond mess that had failed to hide his identity for a few weeks of his life. Darry wasn't proud to say those days still haunted him. He still wakes with a jolt at times, seeing Ponyboy flying across the room, hitting the opposite wall after Darry's temper had been lost so long ago. While awakening from the nightmare, Darry's hand is always outstretched, trying to grab Ponyboy – to hold onto him instead of pushing him away. Never in his nightmare could he change the past, it always ended the same way.

Darry turned off the water, the job done. Ponyboy was cleaned. Darry put a towel over his brother's lower middle, to give him that dignity - that modesty he'd yearned for in life; then covered him with a sheet up to his shoulders. Darry knew Ponyboy was gone, but he couldn't make himself put the sheet over his brother's head. Not his youngest brother, the baby of the family; the one he'd silently promised his dead parents during their own funeral a lifetime ago to protect. Darry wiped the water from Ponyboy's closed eyes, like pooled tears with nowhere to go, and left the room.

"Do you need help?" The man asked as Darry wiped his eyes in silence.

He shook his head. "No. I'm done."

"Where would you like him sent?"

"Arlington. He's eligible and earned that right. I want him as close to Sodapop as possible. They would have wanted it that way."

The funeral director understood. He'd taken care of the arrangements for the middle Curtis over thirty years prior but still hadn't forgotten. Later that day after Darry had left, he'd made the calls and gotten the plot. The airlines had reserved a space for both brothers – one in coach and the other in the cargo hold.

Two days later, under a bright blue Washington sky still crisp with winter's cold, Darry stood amongst a few strangers, curious to the new arrival who'd reached this destination in an honor's coach - but would never know the full wealth of the man for whom it carried. The pallbearers impeccable military uniforms, without an errant crease anywhere, were befitting the brother Darry'd lost. Both brothers. Both lost.

The flag draped oak coffin was carried over and placed with care and dignity over the hollowed ground, and the chaplain began to speak. Later, the flag was smartly folded and with sharp military bearing, delivered to Darry; who would add it to the one already at the house. Side by side those flags would sit, in matching mahogany cases atop the piano. The piano that would never again be played.

The riflemen aimed and fired, jerking Darry back to the present. Three volleys went off, then the quiet of the grounds swallowed the noise. The chaplain said a few more things, then stepped forward to offer a more private condolence to Darry. And then it was over.

The crowd dispersed. Darry, unwilling to leave - knowing he couldn't stay, finally stepped forward and touched the coffin.

"I love you, Ponyboy. I always have, little buddy. And I'm damn proud of you. Say hi to Sodapop and the guys for me."

Tears streamed down his face, tears he rarely let out. The men standing a dozen feet away with shovels and a backhoe said nothing. This was routine to them here. Darry patted the smooth wooden encasement a few more times then turned to leave, but not toward the awaiting limo. Darry instead walked a few graves over and kneeled down, brushing the snow off another white headstone who'd stood silent witness to the events of the morning.

"Sodapop, take care of him. He's with you now. You two behave yourselves, ya hear?" He patted the headstone as if it were Soda's shoulder and finally turned to leave. Looking around, Darry knew his brothers were in good company. They would be safe here. His days of being their guardian were over at last.

The limo left Arlington's gates a few moments later, the driver intent on taking Darry back to the funeral home. Instead, Darry cleared his voice and spoke.

"Could you take me to The Wall, instead?"

"Mr. Curtis... I'm, uh... It's not..."

"If you could just take me there and drop me off, I can walk the rest of the way back."

The driver nodded and pulled up along the curb. Darry got out and walked the short distance to the stone entryway. Others were here, tourists who came to see the monuments or simply walk along history's paths. Kids romped about, laughing and playing. Darry ignored them all as he walked the silent steps he'd taken only once before.

He stopped in front of a particular panel and looked up. Slightly above his line of sight was the carving of a name he'd heard called out by so many, so often in his youth. Tears gushed as memories flooded his mind, of a particular voice and laughter that echoed now only in the wind of times past. With trembling fingers, he traced the letters. The scorch of agony he'd felt decades ago as he'd opened his door to soldiers bringing him solemn news still burned his heart ... his soul.

Soda had died alone, his last words lost to the winds of war. What they had been had always torn at Darry's heart.

Ponyboy had died alone, too.

Now, Darry was alone. But they, those two brother's who'd clung to each other in nearly every tragedy life threw at them … they were together at last.

"I love you too, Sodapop."

Darry knew that when it came his time, he wouldn't be able to join his brothers here. That was okay. He'd join his parents in West Lawn. Eventually. He turned and walked away, surprised to see the limo still there. The driver looked sheepish as he opened the door for Darry to climb back in.

"My boss wouldn't have approved if I'd left. Where to?"

"The airport." Darry said carefully. He saw no further reason to stay in Washington and had brought his bag with him, stored in the limo's trunk.

The driver nodded and closed the door behind his passenger, then headed off to Washington National Airport.

There, Darry boarded his plane and finally left. His brothers were together. They would be fine.

XXX

Calla Lily Rose

A/N: Please don't forget the men and women who are serving overseas this holiday season. Bless you all, and come home safe. Semper Fi.


End file.
